Quintin Jardine's blog

Craig Brown’s a nice man, no question; among football people, one of the nicest. So I hope he doesn’t take this personally when I say that no football result this season has pleased me more than tonight’s at Pittodrie, Aberdeen. No, that’s not true; I don’t give a bugger whether he takes it personally or not.

I see that the Italian Prime Minister is in yet another wee bit of bother. Maybe more than a wee bit, since the charge he’s facing carries up to fifteen years in the slammer. Here’s a suggestion, Silvio. How about engaging Tommy Sheridan as counsel for the defence?

Another bad night for Chelsea; shame. The general reaction in Spain to the Fernando Torres transfer is, ‘They paid HOW MUCH for him?’ I heard the sage that is Ray Wilkins express concern this morning that Chelsea might win the Premier League for Arsenal by beating Man U twice. While this is true, that scenario does not seem to be worrying the bookies too much, certainly not as much as it is worrying Ray.

News from the L’Escala front. La Guapa Mia has her first sleep-over at granny’s place last night. Seemed to enjoy it, and still is, from the noises I hear from outside.

Success this morning ; the car passed its ITV (Inspeccion tecnico de vehiculos) with flying colours, the only glitch coming when the examiner couldn’t find the chassis number. It’s a very efficient process, run by an agency, and next time I’ll know to check in at the office before going into the inspection bay.

Back to work now, but there are granny noises coming from the room below my office so we’ll see how long that lasts.

The next Skinner is scheduled for UK publication in June. I’m not sure when it will be released in South Africa, but probably around the same time. Even then, there’s always Campbell Read Books, if you’d like one signed.

Where did Starbucks get its name?

Ed Millipede is taking the piss, isn’t he? Seems he went to Wales yesterday and accused the government of taking a big gamble with the economy. That’s rich, from someone who was a member of the most suicidally profligate administration of our time, from the man who wrote, and has since disowned, the last Labour Manifesto, from the man who sat round the cabinet table with the guys who spent all the money and then left notes boasting about it, from the acolyte whose former deputy leader is now reduced to doing embarrassing TV ads for price comparison websites, based on an assault upon an angry elector, for which, astonishingly he was never prosecuted, when anyone else in the land would have been. Sorry Ed, memories aren’t that short. STFU.

The person I mentioned on the Stuart Cosgrove thing wasn’t my first primary teacher. She was a lovely wee wumman called Chrissie Parker, who played the harmonium, and onky ever belted one boy for being very, very bad. After her I had a lady called Miss (Roberta) Forrest, who left to become Kirsty Wark’s mum. The likes of your infant experience and my child-chucker were in the minority, I am glad to say. There were only two real beasts in Knowetop when I was there, although I did stand near to the deputy head at Fir Park one day after I’d left, and thought that if I’d used language like his, in his class, I’d have been belted till the blood ran.

A few years ago, Alan Shearer scored what was described as ‘The mother of all goals of the season’. If that was the case, I’ve just seen Wayne Rooney score their granny . . . if that’s not an indelicate thing to say about Wayne. Come on you Reds.

Strange day in Dubai, with all the contenders in the Desert Classic having off days. Tiger’s still hanging in there. Will his class tell tomorrow, or will Stephen win that copy of The Loner?

For those of you who haven’t been to Facebook this morning, I have just posted some pics from last night’s Sopar. The man in the last one is the mayor of L’Escala. Is that the lady mayor? I have no idea.

He’s back in the jungle, as are most people. But coming up fast is Stephen Gallacher, all the way from West Lothian, who has been known, I am told, to read the occasional QJ book. Win, Stephen and a copy of The Loner will head your way. However, currently heading the leader board to my wife’s great delight, is Sergio Garcia. Oops, as I write, the Tigger has just followed a double bogey at the ninth with an eagle at the tenth. Game on again? Watch this space.

Know what a Sopar Maridatge is? No?  It’s a wine-tasting with accompanying food, in the form of a pica pica, a continuous stream of tapas dishes, appropriate to each wine sampled. The one we attended last night took place in Restaurant Nautic, L’Escala. We tasted eleven, all of  them white, from aperitifs to a pudding wine. It went very well, the only blot being that my good friend Dilwyn turned out to be allergic to almost every course on the menu. Luckily he is definitely not allergic to wine, and declared himself happy at the end of the night. I know what you’re wondering. Swallow or spit? Some of the first, none of the second and about half was poured away. They’re doing another in a couple of weeks;  that will be a red wine night.  Will we go? Maybe, but with a minder.

Maybe he reads my blog mid-round on his iPhone. Maybe I provoked him. After scratching around for 17 holes yesterday, the Tiger holed a six-foot putt for an eagle on  the last, and hasn’t dropped a shot since. If he keeps a bogey off his card for the next two rounds he will win in Dubai. Even if he doesn’t he can regard the last two days as a 36-hole medal match play against the top two players in the world, which he won, comfortably.

All of that will mean very little to non-golfers, so let me sum it up. The game needs Tiger Woods.

That’s nice of you. You’re more clever than I am; I rarely know what’s going to happen till I get there. Tell me, which do you prefer, England or Arkansas?

“I’m a Jehovah’s Witness”.

I said “Hi there, come in and sit down.”

“Now, what do you want to talk about”?

He said, ” Fucked if I know, I’ve never got this far before”

Who prioritises news? Why are the broadcast media full of Mubarak and Lord Oakeshott (?) when Charles Taylor’s war crimes trial is coming to a conclusion? In comparison to that tale of genocide, who should give one about an 82-year old despot clinging to the illusion of power, or an obscure LibDem peer resigning from government to which he was never elected, yet whose stories made bigger headlines?  Could it be that regardless of the moral and criminal aspects of a news story, it ceases to be of interest as soon as the viewer figures start to decline? Give a few quid to Amnesty International or Comic Relief then buy the Daily Mail and go back to reading the shit they tell you is important. That’s the nation we’ve become.

I’m old enough, just, to remember seeing Trevor Bailey play cricket for England on television. He was known as ‘Barnacle’ for being difficult to dislodge, as described memorably by Neville Cardus in his book, Cricket of Vintage. In retirement, he went on to become of the regulars in the great era of radio’s Test Match Special, making up a triumvirate with John Arlott and Brian Johnston. He died this morning, aged 87, in a fire at his home in Westcliff, Essex. A good innings, a sad dismissal.

As I write this Tiger Woods is prowling the course in the Dubai Desert Classic. Once the Tiger ate everyone in sight; now he’s mostly to be found in the jungle. Sad.